“In there, sir—she’s up there.”
Reggie went up the stairs in quick time. The door of a little sitting-room stood open. Inside it people were staring at a woman who sat at her desk. Her dress was dark and wet. Her head lolled forward. A deep gash ran across her throat.
“Yes. There’s too many of us here,” he said, and waved the spectators away. One lingered, an old woman, large and imposing, and announced that she was the matron. Reggie shut the door and came back to the body in the chair. He held the limp hands a moment, he lifted the head and looked close into the flaccid face. “When was she found? When I heard that scream? Yes.” He examined the floor. “Quite so.” He turned to the matron. “Well, well. Who is she?”
“It’s our resident medical officer, Dr. Emily Hall. But Dr. Fortune, can’t you do anything?”
“She’s gone,” said Reggie.
“But this is terrible, doctor. What does it mean?”
“Well, I don’t know what it means. Her throat was cut by a highly efficient knife, probably from behind. She lingered a little while quite helpless, and died. Not so very long ago. Who screamed?”
“The nurse who found her. One of our own girls, Dr. Fortune, Edith Baker. She was always a favourite of poor Dr. Hall’s. She has been kept on here at Dr. Hall’s wish to train as a nurse. She was devoted to Dr. Hall. One of these girlish passions.”
“And she came into the room and found—this—and screamed?”
“So she tells me,” said the matron.